


I Know The Sound of Your Heart

by teenuviel1227



Series: Commissions July-August 2018 [7]
Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Sex, Smut, There's plot but not too much plot, summer fling au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 04:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15744174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: You're fresh from a break up with your long-term boyfriend and feeling severely uninspired for work--so you retreat to the countryside where you meet Brian, a musician looking to clear his head and find inspiration for his next album. You two end up renting rooms adjoined by a balcony and developing a friendship that soon turns into something else. By the end of it, you both know this is something special, that you'll treasure it forever--you both know it can't last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my client, fleursourirex, who commissioned this privately for letting me share it. <3

The first thing you notice about him is the way that he holds himself. Even as the bus ambles along the rough terrain, even as you struggle to stay upright in your seat, there’s something proud, something strong albeit relaxed about the way that he sits up, looking out the window, taking in the view of green, rolling hills, a bright blue sky framed by clouds that are the brightest white you’ve ever seen--and yet your eyes stray on the shadow, the silhouette of him as he watches the landscape roll by. You envy his focus, the way that he seems intent on observing the great nothing: a sharp-shooter aiming at the expanse. 

His shirt is red, bright even now, even in your memory.

Later on, a few days in, the shirt will lie on the floor of your hostel bedroom, discarded and forgotten, will be testament to the night passed, to the way that his kisses trail down your neck, pausing only to mouth at a nipple, to lick at the skin of your ribs, to suck a soft bruise on the hollow of your hip. 

But for now, the red shirt is only a shirt. 

For now, the bus pulls up with a lurch as it reaches its destination. 

For now, you look away from the beautiful stranger to focus on why you’re here: fresh from a break up with someone you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with, fighting off a bout of writer’s block (terrible as you happen to be your magazine’s best features writer, your current emotional state a death sentence to your career if not tended to), looking to find something--anything, really--to get your blood going again. 

The magazine sent you on vacation leave--but you know what they’re asking is for you to somehow find your mojo again, to come back with a think piece about the Korean countryside or what it means to be a solo woman traveler in the 21st century or hell, how it is to get over a break up this grave when you do something creative for a living. 

_ For the love of god,  _ your Editor said. 

_ For the love of god,  _ you tell yourself as you pull your suitcase out from the overhead compartment.  _ Pull yourself together.  _

The hostel is small but quaint, painted a pale yellow with a red brick roof that has exactly six cracked tiles from what you can see at first glance. There are bright flowers that frame the porch: pinks and blues and violets bright in the summer sun. The building itself sits on a plateau that overlooks the landscape, has a common area huge windows that you think will be perfect for writing after breakfast or for watching the sunrise or for smoking up if none of that works. There are three rooms that house six people each and two private rooms in the refurbished attic which share a veranda that overlooks the valley. On the internet, the sloping roof and distance from the common areas looked more than inviting. It costs you a little bit more to get a private room, but you’re dead set on going full-on Virginia Woolf and room-of-your-owning it--so you bite the bullet, take the attic which feels like home for now, feels a lot like you’re feeling: reserved but safe, in a way. 

Hidden from sight but only by your own doing. 

There are free drinks offered to you and the rest of the tourists when you arrive: a variant of Yuzu tea spiked with a local liquor. It should be fun, should be inviting, but there’s something about the murmur of strangers making small talk, of glasses clinking together, that reminds you too much of your life in the city--reminds you too much of the life that you used to share with  _ him _ , that person who you knew so well in a time that seems so long ago now even if it’s only been a few weeks, even if it’s barely been a month since you both broke it off. 

So you sign in at the log, have them run your card, take the key to your room, and then take your drink without bothering to put your things down or take in the view. You make a beeline for your room--you walk down the hall, are halfway up the winding stairwell at the end of it when you notice that there’s a second set of footsteps trailing your own. You look back and see the handsome stranger from the bus, walking behind you, his travel case making a sound against the floor as he lugs it behind him, his hiking backpack strapped to his shoulders, drink in one hand. 

Your eyes meet.

He raises a hand in a small wave, smiles a tentative smile, lips curling up at the corners, eyebrows rising ever-so-slightly in a gesture of  _ hello _ \--and you mirror him, hoping the gesture is friendly but reserved, kind but not inviting. No doubt, you think, he’s handsome: strong jaw, intense eyes, broad shoulders, but you’re not looking for that at the moment. 

Nonetheless, your heart skips when he walks down the hall and starts up the staircase too.

You get the key into the door but it’s harder than you think, takes a moment when you still have one hand holding up your welcome cocktail. You move your leg out to keep your suitcase upright. Your backpack crashes into his as he reaches the landing.

“--you okay, neighbor?” He puts his travel bag down and reaches out to steady you by the elbow. 

You smile despite yourself. His voice is friendlier than you’d expected, his demeanor lighter, more earnest. You find your footing.

“Perfectly fine.” One more turn and the door opens. “Thanks.”

“Alright,” He says, opening his own door. “Have a good day, then.”

You pause before entering, glancing back at him, deciding it’s probably best not to be rude to someone who’d be living next door to you for the next week or so. 

“To a peaceful few days.”

He grins, leaning over to clink his drink against yours. You both take a sip. You note the sweat beading on his nose, the movement of his Adam’s apple as he drinks. 

“Cheers.”

  
  


Turns out he’s a musician. You wonder how you could’ve missed that. What you’d mistaken for a backpack was a guitar case. You chalk it up to exhaustion from the trip. Music drifts in from the veranda, half-open to let the summer breeze in. He keeps singing the same lines over and over again.

_ It’s you-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh.  _

_ It’s you-ooh-ooh-ooh.  _

You sigh but smile despite yourself, pour yourself another glass of wine, watch the curtains drift in the wind. 

It isn’t all bad--the musician thing.

On the one hand, it’s noisier than you’d thought your stay would be: the guitar strumming into the odd hours of the night (not that you were sleeping anyway), the sound of a foot stomping to the beat resounding as you sit at your desk, the cursor blinking on an empty page, the constant classic rock  playing from what you’re guessing is a bluetooth speaker on the off-chance that he isn’t making his own music. It’s an endless flurry of faraway sounds and by now you almost have it down to a rhythm: in the morning, it’s mostly softer stuff from the seventies, some Joni Mitchell, some Cat Stevens mingled with Trot tracks from the fifties. In the afternoon, it’s a lot of alternative stuff that you grew up on as well--a more reluctant, playful side of you wonders how old he is--and in the evenings, it’s almost all originals, mingled Korean and English, the melodies catchy, but their full meanings lost on you. 

You listen in in glimpses:  _ without you, I’m eyeless. It’s you.  _

Today, he’s taking a shower and singing along to an old The Doors record--you can hear the water rushing from the other room. 

_ Come on baby, light my fire.  _

You grin, click the small x on the document and give up writing for the day. You reach into your small purse and light a cigarette that a friend gave you. You don’t usually smoke, but you figure if you were ever going to again, it may as well be now, here. In limbo, next door to a beautiful stranger. 

The upside of all of it is that the music isn’t interrupting anything anyway--the writing is slow, your thoughts defocused, the clarity of every piece you attempt slipping from you right as you begin to type. 

_ The landscape is a riveting picture of  _

Backspace.

_ Heartache has always been both fuel for and a deterrent to creativity _

Backspace.

_ I like his voice.  _

That, you keep--for whatever it’s worth.   
  


 

You’re four days into your stay when it happens for the first time--today, you’d promised yourself, you would go out and hike, really inspire yourself. Today, you would go and take in the view, do what you came here to do: sketch flowers, take photos, list down metaphors or co-associations, make a list of things that look like other things. Today, you’d told yourself the night before as you checked the weather forecast (sunny in the morning, cloudy in the late afternoon), you would turn this staycation into a vacation. 

Or work day, whatever the difference between the two is.

And yet it’s half-past two and the sun is bright in the sky and the other tourists have gone on a guided tour exploring the flora to be found by the mountainside--and you’d stayed behind. Instead, you’re lying sprawled out in the middle of your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin round and round and round until you can see the elisee even when you close your eyes. Your laptop is open on the desk but as always, it looks the same: just a blank page with the cursor blinking. 

_ It’s mocking me.  _

Music is coming in from the other room. 

_ At least I’m not the only hermit here.  _

The thought is a comfort.

Today, he’s playing AC/DC on fullblast.

You smile despite yourself. You still know the lyrics used in that old Jack Black rom com. 

_ Ridin’ down the highway, headin’ to the show. Stop at all the by-ways, playin’ rock n’ roll.  _

You sing along. 

“It’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock n’--”

There’s a loud knocking on the glass of the veranda door. You jolt upright. He’s standing outside, waving at you. The sunlight catches his hair. Today, he’s wearing a white, short-sleeved button down with the front undone, a pair of linen shorts riding low on his hips. He has a cigarette between his lips. 

You stand up slowly, both reluctant and excited to finally talk to someone. You undo the latch on the door. 

“Hey.” He grins. “Sorry to bother you--but glad to hear you’re enjoying the tunes--”

“--well I’m not sure about  _ enjoying _ , more like it’s really highlighted just how much disk space I need to clean up up here,” you joke, tapping at your temple with a forefinger. “So much stored trash.”

“It’s not  _ trash _ ,” he says playfully. “It’s precious information. You might end up winning on jeopardy one day. The main song featured in the 2003 hit-comedy School of Rock--”

You grin. “--what is  _ optimistic neighbor comes knocking at veranda door? _ ”

He laughs, whistles the jeopardy theme song. “Sorry, but that’s not quite it.” 

Your gaze strays to his lips, between which hangs an unlit cigarette. His tongue flashes for an instant behind his teeth and he poises himself to speak. You beat him to it.

“Did you want a  light?” 

He nods. “Guilty as charged. My lighter ran out and I’m too lazy to go downstairs and ask the front desk if they have one.”

“Gotcha.” 

You walk to your desk, take the lighter and your pack before moving out on the veranda to join him. You light first his cigarette and then your own. A deep breath, the warmth of the smoke, the cool menthol from the cigarette. 

You both watch the trail below, the other tourists like ants as they hike back up the hill. The murmur of chatter makes you grimace--and you half-turn long enough to catch a similar look of disgust flicker across his face. 

“Good thing they had these rooms free, huh?” You comment, tapping ash from your cigarette onto a makeshift ashtray comprised of a repurposed beer bottle with the top shaved off. “Anymore social interaction and we’d both probably keel over and die.”

He laughs--this time, a full one, body leaning forward, head thrown back, loud and clear. It lights something in you, or sets something free: you think of a bird slipping from the confines of its cage.

“It’s just all so tedious,” he says, taking a drag. “The small talk and the blah blah blah--”

“--as opposed to the deep conversation we just had about jeopardy--”

“--as opposed to talking about our deep-seated fear of big groups and the dynamics of constant socialization without really saying anything,” he says in a way that’s almost soft, almost tender. He smiles, reaches out his hand. “Brian, by the way.”

You take his hand slowly, say your name. 

“Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” 

He glances into your room, at the bottle of wine, at the blank word document open on your laptop.

You follow his gaze, roll your eyes. “I’m uninspired, okay, Sherlock?”

“You wanna go for a walk at sunset? Nowhere far, just down there to the edge of the property with the clearing and the stone benches--”

“--jeez and you were going off about small talk--”

“--we wouldn’t have to talk,” he says, putting out his cigarette. “We could just sit and wander and gather inspiration for whatever the fuck both of us are doing here. That’s it.”

You think about it for a moment--pause and watch as an odd expression settles on his face: something between hope and frustration, desperation and defiance.  _ He’s at an impasse too.  _ You nod. 

“It’s a plan. Knock on my door when you’re ready to go.”

He smiles. “Will you be writing?”

You snort. “Fat chance. I’ll be napping but thanks.”

He grins. “A good choice. I love naps.” 

“See you at sunset, then.” You put your cigarette out, walk back toward the doorway. 

“See you.”


	2. Chapter 2

You’ve never been an outdoorsy person--sure, city parks and eco landscapes are fine, but out here, in the relative wilderness, out here there are bugs and blades of grass that make your shins itchy, mud that cakes on your trainers, gravel that kicks up as the two of you walk down the path. And yet, there’s something nice about it too: something about the smell of the damp earth drying in the summer sun, something about the sound of cicadas just starting to stir, something about the way that the clouds billow in the quick wind, something about the smell of cooking coming down from the kitchen. You watch Brian as he walks ahead of you--it’s odd. When you’d first seen him on the bus, you’d pegged him as a backpacker, as someone athletic, someone who’d come here for the trails, for the wildlife. But now, as you two amble down the path, you notice that there’s something awkward in his gait too: something cautious, something unused to being outside. You smile to yourself as he walks over to the stone benches in the clearing, testing the sturdiness with a foot before sitting down to watch the sunset. 

“You trying to see if it’s alive or--”

“--just trying to see if it’s sturdy.” He grins, scoots over so you can sit beside him. “You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes but take a seat, realize that the earth beneath your feet is softer--he’d been right to check. 

“Point taken.” You look out onto the sunset. It’s a deep orange bleeding into pink, reds soaking into the blues and spinning violets where evening is just starting to creep into the horizon. You let out a soft sigh. “We never have sunsets like this in the city.” 

“Tell me about it. Well, I mean. Not that I would know.” He looks up. You watch the profile of his face--trace the line from throat to chin to nose with your gaze. “I’m usually way too busy back home to even look outside my window, let alone know what time would be ideal for that sort of thing.”

“Jeez,” you joke. “What are you, like a CEO disguised as a superhero or something? Mr. Tony Brian Kang Stark?”

He laughs. “I wish. I’m a musician.”

“Like a  _ professional _ musician?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “I busk in the subway and ask people for lint.”

“As expected.” You shrug, grinning. You turn to him and he’s looking at you with an amused look on his face. You roll your eyes. “I was kidding, god. Are you in a band or are you a solo act? Sorry. I’m out of the loop. Been listening to the same things since I was sixteen pretty much.” 

“No--no, it’s fine. It’s refreshing actually. You ever hear of YoungK?”

“Oh jeez,” you say. “Yeah, my little cousin won’t stop singing that song that goes like-- _ I love it, oh I love it-- _ I said it could be a McDonald’s jingle.” 

“Well,” he says. “That’s  _ me _ . And incidentally, I  _ did _ get my start in jingles.”

You frown. “I thought YoungK was a DJ.”

“Ah, that’s the dance remix. The original’s an acoustic love song.” 

“Oh,” you say, nodding. “Well that’s cool. You out here looking for inspiration or something? A classic case of feeling jaded and just gotta get out?” 

“As cliche as it may sound, well--” He shrugs, a flicker of hesitation moving over his face. “Something like that.” 

“I see,” you say, watching as the sun dips down behind the mountains. The sky darkens, a glowing darkness. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about that.”

He glances at you, smiles--the first earnest one this evening. “Thanks.”

“It’s fine. I’m here for similar reasons--in a way.” 

He nods back toward the hostel. “You wanna go steal dinner and avoid everyone by eating it up on the balcony?”

You grin. 

“Let’s.” 

  
  


The thing about being with Brian is it’s easier than you expect. He’s funny, he listens, he knows when to be quiet and when to talk, when to be serious and when to cajole. Somewhere between the idea of him, between the way that you expect him to be with his eyes that could kill and his quiet mouth and sharp jaw, and the reality of him, the actual way that those eyes turn into half-crescents when he laughs, the way that his quiet mouth gives way to laughter that erupts from him true as sunshine, the way that his jaw disappears when his cheeks puff out when he smiles, there’s a kind of comfort, a sense of relief that you’re grateful for. With Brian comes a sense of relief that things aren’t always what they seem--but in a good way. Relief that maybe life still has secrets for you to keep.

The days pass slowly but you two develop a kind of routine, one that you’re hesitant to admit works. 

You spend the days alone, together: you write in the mornings, Brian being the one to go down and fetch you both food, coffee. He knows better than to disturb you, just walks into your room via the veranda door--which you now keep unlocked--and leaves your tray on the table. You eat your food after he leaves, for once absorbed in the thing that you’re writing: a think-piece on what it means to “go on a retreat” or to “find yourself”, all of these phrases that seem to be written everywhere as though people are already expected to know what they mean. 

Who are we retreating from? Is it really ourselves that we’re trying to find? 

As soon as the clock strikes twelve, it’s your turn to head downstairs, gather food. You step into Brian’s room--it’s neater than you expect, his clothes folded, his instruments laid out all in a row by the desk--and by now, he’s usually tuning his guitar or finishing the last chapter in the comic that he’s reading before he gets to songwriting. You pick up his discarded breakfast tray and head downstairs, say your hellos, do your obligatory share of small talk before picking up fresh trays and loading them with plates of food, orange juice, a pitcher of water. 

Brian eats lunch sometime between the time he sets down to write songs and the time the sunsets.

You eat lunch in your room, reading a book, listening to the sound of Brian warming up.

His voice makes you think of a plane crossing the sky. 

It colors the narratives in the novel somehow, bring them to life.

After lunch, you nap like you haven’t napped since you were a child. It’s the slumber of summers without school, sleep with the promise of waking to an afternoon snack or a day at the park. 

Brian wakes you when he finishes songwriting, usually late in the afternoon. Sunsets and dinner you two reserve for each other’s company. You hesitate to admit it but it’s the part of the day that keeps you going--the part of the day that you endure that tedium of writing and reading and showering and going down to get food for, the conversation that you withstand the silence for.

You two have a route, are getting much better at traversing the terrain around the hostel. You go down the first trail, into the small thicket of woods and out onto the small stretch of river before rounding back, ending in the clearing with the stone benches to watch the sun set. You eat dinner out on the balcony, watching the stars. You finish off bottles of wine together, the conversation, the secrets spilling out of you like yarn catching on a kitten running down the stairs. 

You tell him about your ex-fiance, tell him about the quiet despair that followed you both during the last year-and-a-half, how both of you had no idea how it begun, but somehow knew that it only ended with you two going your separate ways. You tell him about the deep, gnawing anxiety that crashed into you after: you’d both been happy. There were no third parties, no lies, no deception, only the honest truth: you both wanted different lives. 

He tells you about his bandmates--about how they’d gotten famous together and somehow, somewhere, the fame and their egos tore them apart. He tells you about the kind of heartbreak that rendered him incapable of writing, tells you about how a dream fulfilled had turned into a nightmare as the shallowest arguments--who got put on the center of a poster, whose name was biggest on the light-up sign outside the theater--suddenly turned into do-or-die situations. He tells you that he was terrified of going solo, terrified of releasing his debut album, and that when he had, instead of feeling proud as it skyrocketed on the charts, he was filled with a deep sadness at the fact that he couldn’t share it with his bestfriends, his former bandmates. 

It’ll be okay, you both assure each other--you both have no idea if this is true but it seems worth the try for the relief that crosses the other’s face.

There are other things too, other moments that you try to push away, that you try to keep at the periphery because that isn’t what you came here for. There are times when you’re talking and you’ll find Brian’s gaze drift down toward your lips for the fraction of a second, as if contemplating something, as if wondering about something, and then he looks up and it’s gone. There are times when you find yourself leaning on Brian out on the veranda, when you find yourself looping your arm through the crook of his when you go on your walks--and feel electricity run up your spine. 

There are nights when you lie awake, wondering would happen if you crossed the veranda into his room and asked the question that would change everything.

_ Sleep with me?  _

You hold back, you turn in bed and let the cicadas lull you to sleep. 

It works most nights. Other nights, you lie awake restless until the sun comes up, refusing to relieve yourself, refusing to give into the temptation: an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You lie in a state of silence, of half-sleep until you hear Brian getting up in the other room,  _ click _ as he flicks the lights on, the sound of water running as he washes his face. You pretend to sleep until he goes down to get you both breakfast. Some days, you end up actually falling asleep, waking up to Brian’s hand on your shin. 

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

_ Sleep with me.  _


	3. Chapter 3

It happens on your last night there.

You’ve booked your room for twelve days, your flight back to the city and then back home not allowing you to stay for the full two weeks like Brian is. The days seem to have flickered past like an old video set on fast-forward: one minute you’re watching the sunset, leaning comfortably on his shoulder--and then suddenly, it’s now. Suddenly, your room is no longer littered with books and Brian’s flannels that he’s lent you on your early evening walks. Suddenly, everything is in suitcases save for your laptop and tomorrow’s airport outfit which sits folded on the chair by the desk. 

Today, you and Brian have decided to deviate from routine. You can’t write anyway, your heart is in too odd a state for you to clear your head. This entire time, you’ve thought of this as a temporary fix, thought of Brian as your comrade in grief and in recovery--and now, you realize that maybe all along he’s been a dagger with the blunt end pressed to your skin, slowly sinking in without you noticing. 

You realize that this is going to hurt. That leaving is going to hurt. 

You and Brian wake up early, both of you meeting out on the landing between your rooms and heading down to the dining hall before everyone else wakes up. You’ve both got your swimsuits on underneath your clothes, bring your towels with you. You have breakfast out on the main terrace, watching as the landscape slowly wakes up. The coffee is hot and the waffles are sweet, the fruit ripe. Brian is uncharacteristically serious today, foregoing his usual sardonic humor to talk to you about songs and books and TV shows and movies that he thinks you should watch. In turn, you’re more careful with him too--trade in teasing him and picking on his stage name for telling him about different cities you’ve traveled to and loved, telling him about the different philosophies in life you adhered to-- _ you never walk into the same river twice-- _ and the different albums you wish you guys could listen to together.

After breakfast, you two pack a small basket of cold cuts and cheese and bread and fruit and walk down to the river. The day is clear, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. You realize as Brian’s taking off his shirt that it’s the first time you guys have gone down to the water, that it’s the first time that you’re seeing him like this despite seeing glimpses of his bare body through his loosely buttoned polos: chest out and upper body toned but thick, his waist letting out into full hips, the dip of his pelvis disappearing beneath the waistband of his swimming shorts, the line of his skin reappearing after the hem of his shorts. 

He slips into the water, takes a dip and resurfaces wet, brushing his hair back. It catches on the sunlight, turning the deepest blacks into the brightest browns. 

He’s gorgeous. 

He grins at you. 

You feel your heart skip, feel yourself suddenly get self-conscious. 

“Hurry up. The water’s great.”

You take off your shirt, unzip your shorts before setting them down on the shore. You look up to watch him watching you--for a moment you wonder if this is okay, wonder if he thinks you’re whatever  _ enough _ it is you think you aren’t. And then you see him smile, see him blush slightly as he averts his gaze and you know that to him--whatever he is to you at this point--you could never be lacking. 

You slip into the water. 

He’s right--it’s cool but not biting cold, fresh against your sun-warmed skin. You resurface. 

Your eyes meet. You wonder if he’s thinking what you’re thinking--which is that you should’ve kissed him that first day, which is that you should’ve kissed him last week when you were both wine-drunk and tickling each other on his bed. 

He grins, reaches down to cup the water and splashes you in the face. You let out a laugh, splash him back. The small wave hits him square in the face. You both laugh, not quite sure what you’re laughing at. You feel the small hairs on the backs of your arms stand up as he catches your wrist as you’re about to splash him again, tugging you toward him under the water. 

“What’re you doing?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He bites his lip, looks into your eyes. “Well. Nothing--”

“--right--”

“--nothing yet.”

You blink, finally daring to wonder where this is going. 

“What are you waiting for?”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes filled with concern. “I mean--do you want me to? I don’t want you to feel pressured into--”

“--Brian.” You reach up, put a hand on his nape, pull him softly toward you, savoring the way that his nose skims yours as your lips come so close you can feel his breath ghost over your skin when he speaks.

“Yeah?”

“Just fucking kiss me already.”

And so he does, pressing his lips softly but surely against yours. You feel the weight of him as he leans into the kiss, feels his tongue prod softly at your lips--asking for entrance, asking for entrance. Your hands travel up his nape, card through his wet hair as you part your lips and let him in. His tongue is warm as it moves against yours, slick and tasting both sweet and bitter like all of the things both of you love: coffee and waffles and whipped cream and the moments neither of you will have back and music and art and these days you’ve both spent with each other.

You feel yourself grow breathless, feel yourself fumble for footing as you pull him closer. He loops an arm around your waist, pressing you to him, his hips pressing against yours. You lean further into the kiss as he slips a leg between your thighs--you grind against him soft, slow as you feel him stir, feel him rise to the occasion. 

You hear people in the trail above, the snapping of twigs under their footsteps, the rolling of pebbles down the path to the river.

“Bri--”

“You okay?” He whispers as he moves his lips lower, kissing down your neck, skimming your collarbone, your shoulders. You let out a soft gasp as you feel his broad hands fumble with the string on your bathing suit, as his hands softly cup your breasts, as his thumbs find purchase on your nipples, hardening so quick from arousal that it hurts a bit: the pucker too quick, the wait too long. 

Your hands grip the fabric of his shorts. It takes every fiber of your being not to continue, not to slip your hand under the waistband of his shorts and let both of you get carried away. You take a deep breath. 

“--I think we should save it for later,” you manage, a shiver going through you as he kisses the space right above your heart. “I mean. I mean, I want to--but people are starting to wake up at the hostel and--”

“--alright. You’re right.” He grins, lets you go and re-ties the string of your bathing suit where it does up at your nape, but not before running his gaze over you and whispering  _ you look so damn beautiful.  _ You guys spend the rest of the morning dozing and reading and eating on the shore, your towels side-by-side, your hands intertwined.

Time goes by slow and fast at the same time. The space between seconds seems to go like syrup down a spoon, both of you craving each other and yet knowing that if you go up to the room, if you spend the afternoon making love, the day will go by quicker than you’re willing to let it--and yet, for all your effort, before you know it, the sun is setting.

Before you know it, you’re both walking back up to the clearing and the stone benches you’ve both begun to think of as belonging to the both of you. You watch the sunset and as the light dips behind the horizon, Brian tips your chin softly up toward him, closing the gap between you in a soft, passionate kiss. 

When you open your eyes, the twilight is purple and blue and bright, the moon paper-thin and silver in the night sky.

_ This is how I want to remember it.  _

  
  


Back in his room, neither of you waste any time.

Brian makes love like he does everything--like it’s an act in itself and not a means to an end, a whole world contained in a button undone. He takes it slow, enjoying every turn of the cadence, enjoying every beat: he presses you onto the bed kisses you soft and slow and makes his way softly, slowly down your neck, down your collarbones. Warmth, wetness start to pool between your legs, the familiar rush of arousal going through you like lightning as Brian mouths softly at your nipples through the fabric of your shirt until they’re hard against his lips. His fingers rub you soft, slow through the fabric of your swimsuit.

You let out a soft moan as he slips a hand under your shirt, kissing his way down your torso, licking figure-eights at the hollow of your waist. He undoes the ribbons of your suit, softly tosses the bottoms of your bathing suit to the side. He kisses your inner thighs and you find yourself bucking your hips. 

He meets your eye, grins. “Relax.”

“Easy for you to say--” You let out a deep breath, hands turning into fists in the sheets as he runs his tongue softly across your clit. You feel pleasure flood through you as he leans in, licking soft and slow, every flick and swirl maddeningly good. “--oh fuck, Bri--”

Brian grins, going until you’re crying his name, until you drip onto the sheets, until the sounds are slicker than ever, until he’s sucking soft, drinking you in. 

When he resurfaces, you sit up, tug at his shirt, desire coursing through your veins. “--off. Just get it off--”

He takes off his shirt--red--taking care to wipe his lips before tossing it off to the side. 

You grin, wrapping your arms around his torso, kissing the hollow of his pelvis before tugging at the waistband of his shorts. His erection springs free--fully hard, leaking precum at the tip. You kiss it soft, taking him in your mouth slowly, like a kitten lapping at milk. You like the sound of him undone: calling your name, hands growing firm around your shoulders. You take him in, savor the taste, the width of him as he grows harder in your mouth. He thrusts gently, eyes half-shut in pleasure--and then he stops. 

You let off, tilt your head. “You okay? Was it good?”

“The best,” he says softly, leaning down to kiss you. “But I want to make love to you.”

You nod, feel your cheeks burn at the mention of love. “Alright.”

He rolls over, kicks off his shorts before reaching into his duffel bag and pulling out a condom. 

You grin as he undoes the wrapping. “Give me.”

He blinks at you in that way that you find both sexy and endearing, gives you the condom. You softly, slowly, stroke him until he tosses his head back in pleasure--and then you roll the rubber on slowly. 

“Good?”

He grins. “Good.” 

Softly, he presses you onto the bed and kisses you torrid, all tongue and teeth. The weight of him feels so good, feels so sure, setting you ablaze. He pushes into you slow. You’re soaked--but he’s broad, you feel yourself tense before relaxing against him. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he says as he braces himself against the bed, as he thrusts--this time harder, deeper. 

“Bri,” you say, letting your legs wrap around his waist. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear. “Fuck me.”

And he does--hard and sure, chasing his orgasm, but keeping two fingers on your clit, softly coaxing at that throbbing pulse, taking care of you as he goes. His sweat drips onto your collarbones, your chest. When you finally cum, it’s toe-curling, he brings his fingers right to the point that drives you insane--and keeps them there, holding pressure as he fucks into you slow and sure and deep. You let your nails dig softly into his back, knowing you’ll leave small crescent-moons of want there when it’s over. You cry his name until his lips find yours, until he’s saying your name against your lips like it’s a prayer for release, until he spills himself into the condom, until he softens inside you before slowly pulling out.

After, you bathe together in comfortable silence, both of you unable to stop smiling, both of you terribly sad at the thought of the morning to come. You hold each other close as the cool water runs over your warm bodies. 

“Sleep in my room tonight,” you say as Brian towels your hair dry. 

He grins, planting a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Of course.”  
  


 

The next morning, you wake up before he does--get him his breakfast tray, leave him a small note, all you have to say wrapped up in a few words.

_ Thank you. I’ll never forget you.  _

And you never do--even if in a few hours, you’re back in a different city, and then in a different country, a whole other timezone away. Neither of you ever get in touch again--but when his new record comes out and you hear a song you heard come together over the course of those two golden weeks, when you hear the title track about a girl he loved at the height of summer, when you hear about him feeling like a man in a movie, you think of your time together and hold it close in your heart of hearts. 

_ That’s about me.  _

And when your think-piece on finding yourself and how the people who help give us back to ourselves we often find in the oddest places, you know--or you hope that he’s read it, that he passed the magazine stand and at the sight of a familiar name, picked it up, brought it to the counter, and held it close under his coat, in the space right above his heart.

_ This one’s for you.  _


End file.
